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SONNETS  OF  EDWARD  ROBESON 
TAYLOR  ON  SOME  PICTURES 
PAINTED  BY  WILLIAM  KEITH 


SAN  FRANCISCO:  Printed  by 

THE  E.  D.  TAYLOR  CO.         -         MDCCCXCVIII 


Copyright,  1898,  by 
EDWARD  ROBUSON  TAYLOR 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


TO   WILLIAM   KEITH 5 

THE    GOLDEN   HERITAGE   OF   THE 

NATIVE  SONS    ......    .......  9 

THE  JOY   OF  EARTH      .      .      *      .      ,      .      .      .  n 

APRIL        .      v    , .      .      .  13 

THE   QUIET   WOOD         15 

THE   MEADOW         17 

THE  ENCHANTED   WOOD 19 

DAWN 21 

AT  TWILIGHT  TIME 23 

THE  UNCEASING   ROUND 25 

THE   DYING   YEAR 27 

THE  FRUITLESS   QUEST 29 


384652 


TO    WILLIAM   KEITH 


0  Master,  if  such  halting  verse  as  mine 

Can  for  a  moment  stay  thy  magic  brush, 

Until  mid  thankfulness'  religious  hush 

My  grateful  note  shall  fall  on  ear  of  thine, 

1  pray    thee    hearken  to    this   heart- wrought  line — 

Thou  constant  one,  whose  thoughts  in  beauty's  flush 
From  welling  fountains  so  unceasing  gush, 
We  hail  thy  Art  as  born  of  the  divine. 

Would  that  my  rhyme  could  run  as  does  this  stream 
Which  on  thy  canvas  breaks  in  rapturous  song 
Where  Spring,  triumphant,  bursts  from  every  clod! 

Then  would  be  realized  my  vain,  fond  dream: 
To  sing  one  bar  that  might  be  heard  among 
The  myriad  strains  that  rise  from  earth  to  God. 


ON   SOME   PICTURES   PAINTED 
BY  WILLIAM   KEITH 


THE    GOLDEN   HERITAGE   OF    THE  NATIVE  SONS 


Behold  this  canvas  where  the  artist  shows 
Our  Golden  Heritage:    The  sovereign  Sun 
In  ripened  harvest  sees  his  triumph  won, 
And  golden  glories  deepen  to  repose, 

Save  where  the  laden  wain  an  accent  throws 
Of  voiceful  toil ;  afar  the  mountains  swim ; 
Great  trees  ensentinel  the  valley's  rim, 
And  childhood  gambols  where  the  streamlet  flows. 

O  children,  nature  here  has  given  her  best — 
So  rich,  no  poet  could  its  wealth  proclaim 
Though  dowered  with  words  of  ruby-hearted  flame ; 

Knead  with  it  best  of  yours;  and  so  possessed, 

May  you,  faced  starward,  mount  to  summits  where 
Your  souls  shall  blossom  in  celestial  air. 


THE  JOY    OF    EARTH 


Who  doubts  the  earth  speaks  audibly  unto 
The  heart   of  everyone  that  lists  to  hear, 
Setting  its  beats  to  music?    If  to  thee  not  clear 
Her  ceaseless  note  that  rings  beneath  the  blue; 

Or  hast  thou  never  been  impelled  to  woo 

Her  beauty-glowing  forms,  nor  sought  her  ways, 
I  pray  thee  on  this  breathing  picture  gaze, 
That  Art  may  give  thee  all  thy  soul's  best  due. 

For  here  Earth  seems  with  radiant  joy  to  say: 
Behold  the  children  born  in  love  to  me — 
These  lush,  deep  grasses  "where  the  flowerets  play 

At  hide  and  seek;  this  wide-embracing  tree, 

Where  birds  may  live  their  little,  tuneful  day, 
And  golden  harvests  that  are  yet  to  be. 


APRIL 


Full  many  a  time  fair  April  have  I  seen 
Enwrapped  in  cloud  of  every  lovely  hue, 
With  tears  that  fell  as  soft  as  morning  dew 
On  bloomy  orchard  and  on  fields  of  green; 

And  watched  her  smilingly,  her  tears  between, 
The  balmy  air  with  sun-born  jewels  strew, 
Till  life  and  joy  and  song  seemed  born  anew, 
To  glorify  with  promise  all  the  scene. 

These,  and  still  more,  O  Master,  hast  thou  caught 
Within  the  meshes  of  thy  subtile  art, 
That  April  there,  with  quickening  beauties  fraught, 

Might  stir  the  languid  waters  of  the  heart, 
And  make  forever  there  all  seasons  hers 
To  bid  fulfilment  crown  the  laboring  years. 


THE    QUIET    WOOD 


Come  with  me  into  this  all-quiet  wood, 

Where  nought  of  hurry  or  of  noise  is  known; 
Where  lulling  airs  from  Heaven's  own  peace  are  blown, 
To  fill  the  heart  with  Rest's  delicious  good. 

Here  we  may  lie  on  leafy  couch,  and  brood, 
While  sweet  Imagination  binds  her  zone 
Around  our  vagrant  thoughts,  and  stirs  alone 
The  silence  of  this  lovely  solitude. 

Thou  precious  Art!  be  always  thus,  so  we 

May  compass  something  of  thy  priceless  lore: 
Thy  deeper  truths  shall  set  the  spirit  free, 

When  soulless  imitation  rules  no  more, 
And  where,  as  here,  thy  joyous  liberty 
Gives  birth  to  beauty  never  seen  before. 


THE  MEADOW 


Today  the  soaring  mount  is  not  for  me 

Though  it  should  marshal  all  its  loveliest  mass, 
Or  though  across  my  tempted  vision  pass 
Its  utmost  witchery  of  rock  and  tree; 

For  this  lush  meadow  holds  my  heart  in  fee, 

Where  clouds  lie  sleeping  in  its  pool's  clear  glass, 
And  where  in  comradeship  with  flower  and  grass 
No  other  friend  than  Reverie  shall  be. 

The  Mountain  trumpets  with  imperious  voice, 
And  great  Ambition  sits  enthroned  there 
With  spoils  that  blaze  in  fever-laden  air; 

But  thou,  sweet  Meadow,  bidst  the  soul  rejoice 
In  love  of  lowly  and  familiar  things, 
And  lead'st  to  peace's  cooling,  crystal  springs. 


THE    ENCHANTED    WOOD 


With  moss-grown,  interlocking  arms  that  wear 
A  beauty  strangely  true,  these  gnarled  trees 
Rule  o'er  this  weird  demesne,  where  mysteries 
Seem  lurking  nigh  in  many  an  eerie  lair. 

Silence  has  closed  the  lips  of  every  air, 

Till  hushful  Rest,  as  though  on  drowsy  seas, 
Floats  dreaming,  safe  from  all  disease 
Of  vain  ambition  or  of  mad  despair. 

To  some  such  spot  as  this  lone  Dante  might 

Have  brought  the  travail  of  his  towering  soul, 
When  exile's  grief  had  made  it  joy  to  die; 

And  here  Imagination,  love-bedight, 

Will  over  us  its  waves  enchanted  roll, 
As  near  this  naiad-haunted  pool  we  lie. 


DAWN 


The  mild,  alluring  Night  has  had  her  time, 
For  now  the  Sun  on  his  resistless  way 
Beats  down  with  mighty  hand  her  vast  array, 
And  grandly  up  the  heavens  begins  to  climb. 

These  pulsing  clouds  announce  the  King  sublime; 
Yet  not  with  banner  blazed  with  ruby  ray, 
But  one  whose  opal  lights  the  dawning  day 
Till   earth   and    sky   in    sober    splendor  swim. 

The  birds  have  scarce  awaked,  yet  man  is  here, 
To  lay  the  dewy  grass  beneath  his  knife 
And  bear  it  off  upon  the  waiting  wain. 

Thou  new-born  Day !  what  grief,  what  hope,  what  fear, 
Lie  coiled  within  thy  breast ;  what  peace,  what  strife, 
And  what  ambitions  that  are  worse  than  vain! 


21 


AT   TWILIGHT   TIME 


The  Sun  that  raged  victorious  through  the  day, 
Like  conquering  monarch  scorntul  of  defeat, 
Behind  the  hills  in  unrestrained  retreat 
With  pauseless  haste  now  speeds  upon  his  way. 

He  conquers  still:  these  clouds  proclaim  his  sway, 
That  lace  refulgently  the  lucent  blue, 
And  this   lone-wandering  moon   with  crescent  new 
Begins  to  glow  with  his  reflected  ray. 

The  grasses  tanned  by  summer's  breath,   the  trees, 
The  distant  crag  a  battlement  that  seems, 
Lie  in  the  arms  of  silence  and  of  rest. 

The  feverous  day  is  done;   night's  galaxies 

Hold  yet  aloof;  in  this  mid-time  what  dreams 
May  hover  o'er  us  that  shall  make  us  blest! 


THE   UNCEASING   ROUND 


In   centre  of  the  canvas  see  this  pine 

All  stark  in  death,  with  arms  in  vain  appeal 
For  what  it  nevermore  can  taste  or  feel 
Of  joys  of  earth  or  of  the  heavens  divine. 

Straight  as  in  life  it  stands,  still  bearing  sign 
Of  noble  majesty  and  dauntless  will; 
While  at  its  base  its  elder  brothers  spill 
Their  ashes  where  the  grasses  kiss  and  twine. 

A  glorious  redwood  centuries  have  blessed 

Uptowers,  while  with  bliss  of  life    possessed 
The  forest  sings  in  grand,  harmonious   tone. 

And  careless  men  pass  by — the  children  they 
Of  other  children  death  has  made  his  own, 
And  who  like  them  shall  strive  and  pass  away. 


THE   DYING   YEAR 


The  year  is  on  the  edge  of  death;  for  see, 
These  dreary  branches  have  already  shed 
Such  myriad  leaves,  they  lie  in  mounds  of  dead 
At  foot  of  each  sad-hearted  parent  tree. 

Yet,  grim  and  stern  as  human  soul  might  be, 

The  scarred,  gray  sycamores  with  defiant  head 
Like  warriors  stand,  while  in  its  shrunken  bed 
The  languid  stream  flows  on  resignedly. 

Life  is  aweary  and  in  quiet  here 

Would  rest  awhile  her  fever-haunted  brain, 
As  dreams  she  of  the  dear,  departing  year; 

And  Melancholy,  led  by  Memory's  train, 

With  softest  tread  shall  gently  come  anear, 
To  dew  the  ground  with  sacramental  tear. 


27 


THE   FRUITLESS    QUEST 


Behold:   dark,  lead-like  clouds  made  beautiful 
With  myriad  forms  of  fantasy,  where  light 
Breaks  through  their  lowermost  edge  with  forceful  might, 
As  if  in  challenge  of  their   right  to  rule ; 

Two  birds  that  fly  above  a  sleeping  pool 

In  which  a   woman  peers  with   aching  sight, 
Where  tree  and  grass,  in  mystic  garment  dight, 
Rest  in  the  silence  of  a  dreamful  lull. 

O   Woman!  tell  me  what  thou  findest  here 
In  light  and  dark,  in  water,  bird  and  tree, 
In  all  these  grasses   and  their  mystery. 

O   Man!  I  am  as  thou:   for  could  I  peer 

Till  Time  made  peace  with  Death,  as  now  I  do, 
No  ray  would  show  me  the  unraveling  clew. 


29 


HUNDRED  COPIES  OF  THESE  SONNETS 
WERE  PRINTED  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO  AT  THE 
PRINTING  SHOP  OF  THE  E.  D.  TAYLOR  COM- 
PANY,  IN  THE  MONTH  OF  MAY  AND  YEAR 
MDCCCXCVIII,  NONE  OF  WHICH  ARE  FOR  SALE.*.* 


14  DAY  USE 

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